Part of Us, Apart from Us
by ambre gris
Summary: An anonymous member of the DA recounts their role during the 97-98 Hogwarts year. The return of the Army; a teacher's rebellion; freedom fighting with Harry Potter. One-shot.


Author's Note: Trying something a little different with this one. The first-person perspective here is no one in particular, though you can insert whomever you'd like, I suppose. :) Lots of movieverse with a little bit of bookverse thrown in for good measure. Nothing wrong with mixing it up every once in a while. In any case, I don't own any of it. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Part of Us, Apart from Us<strong>

I almost wish I hadn't been brought back to Hogwarts this year and oh, how strange it is to think or feel that way. We are the lucky ones, since our friends of mixed blood or Muggle descent are shut up in hiding or fighting for their lives or wasting away in Azkaban. Such terrible injustices visited upon those who are the same as any of us. Meanwhile, we the pure have been carted off not to learn, but to become pawns in You-Know-Who's war games. If I'd had the choice, I would have stayed home to protect my family. I suppose Hogwarts is still my family, sort of like always, but not knowing whether your parents or relatives are alive or dead — burning in the house they gave up everything to own, being cursed in their sleep, enduring torture for resistance information — is one of the most horrible feelings I will ever have to face.

It is apparent, from the minute we step off the train and are taken inside, that despite our blood status we will not be treated kindly (save for those who have already bought or chosen their allegiance). To the shock of few, the resignation of some, and the disgust of nearly every student, Professor Snape is seen resting in the headmaster's chair at the staff table, flanked by two squat, evil-faced individuals one can only assume are Death Eaters. The rest of the professors, our beloved Heads of House, sit sullenly or withdrawn, listening to Snape's warnings and guidelines for the year. I can see that the whole hall is listening, but not all with the fear that he has hoped to instill.

The first day of classes is not joyful or anticipated in any positive way. Many of us are already running on little sleep, and the previous night with its cold welcoming did nothing to help us regain any lost time. Some even stayed awake to calm the first-years whose sobs and doubts would not allow them to keep their eyes closed for more than an hour apiece. It's good to see that not everyone has lost the ability to provide comfort in times like these. Doing so in the classroom or the halls, in the open where we are most vulnerable, will prove somewhat of a challenge. But I like to think we've overcome bigger obstacles in the past. I know of a few who can definitely attest to that.

It doesn't take long before a spark rekindles the fires of Dumbledore's Army, and we know the risk of operation runs highest this time around. The Room of Requirement, ever reliable, becomes our stronghold once more. We manage to set up radio contact with Order correspondents, create strings of verbal code, appoint leaders and their successors, if it should come down to that. Each of us takes an oath to remain true to the cause. No one objects.

We still practice Defense magic and teach each other spells and techniques, but there is hardly any laughter, let alone a smile to be had while we hone our skills. Every member, even the youngest at fourteen, is fully focused on becoming a stronger, expertly equipped soldier for the battles that are imminent. Preparing to more than adequately disarm or dismember. To kill, if necessary.

I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready for it, but for the sake of anyone who's counting on me, I have to try.

This is our greatest and most secretive act of treason against Snape and his Dark Lord. We protect it with our lives, but there are some of us who take it to the next level through simple forms of public disobedience. Refusing to answer aloud when called upon. Walking out in the middle of a lecture. Deliberately leaving a wand on a desktop (this one is my idea). The desired effect is not achieved immediately. But we are careful. A full-scale rebellion among students who have everything to lose is not what we want, at least not yet. And any indication of the DA must remain closely guarded.

Although they hover just near the edges of the castle's barriers, droves of Dementors have us surrounded on all sides. Every instant spent under open sky sucks any happiness we desperately cling to for salvation from the Carrows or their allies. Often we are forced to march in rank and file from lesson to lesson, place to place, even though there are plenty of perfectly useable corridors inside. It's tiring, being wrangled up and prodded along like cattle. I think — no, I _know_ — they parade us around in front of the Dementors on purpose as a reminder to everyone that while we're here, they will remain, and while they're there, we have absolutely nowhere to run.

Sometimes during class I distract myself by furtively glancing out a nearby window, triggering daydreams of the world outside. How we used to sit with our friends on the grass by the lake in the spring, how we trudged through the snow and rain but were always warmed by the promise of a hot meal in the gleaming Great Hall. Quidditch. Hogsmeade. As ridiculous as it sounds, I catch myself salivating for those moments, ones that seem like a distant memory although we had them just the previous year, even in the shadows that presented themselves. And bitterly I think of how we took them for granted.

Back in this new, abrupt reality, all I see is fog as far as my eye can behold. Our world is blanketed in it, constantly encapsulated and suffocated, and this we blame on the Dementors as well. Some days are worse than others. But catching a glimpse of the neighboring mountains or being able to make out the shape of the lake or actually feeling _grateful_ to see the Whomping Willow looming (though, these days it's stiller than a rotten log) remind me that while there is fog, there is also sunlight somewhere behind it just waiting to break through. You-Know-Who can take away all that we hold dear, but he will never be nor will he ever come close to defeating the sun.

My belief of this is reenforced one day in January as myself and my fellow classmates are escorted across a courtyard to our next lesson by Amycus Carrow and a tired but still severe Professor McGonagall. I'm thinking about current events and what they mean for us. If the future is something we can really look forward to.

Since Harry Potter's rumored sighting in Godric's Hollow over Christmas, more of us than ever before have begun to rebel. Confidence, at first very weak, is beginning to return, especially among the younger students. Of course, those of us who choose to defy authority are punished for it, but the result seems worth the pain. Something of an inside joke has thus bloomed within the DA. We figure that soon enough they'll be running out of ways to reprimand us if we keep throwing ourselves at them. But the joke stops there because even though we're all thinking it, no one wants to mention that they may just begin to dispose of us permanently.

On that misty January afternoon, mindlessly marching, I am brought back from my daze by a sound that makes an effort to blend in but also dares to be quite different from all the rest. I hazard a lightning quick glance back and over my shoulder, and see that the source of the peculiar noise is McGonagall herself. From what I'm able to gather, she seems to be walking a little taller, and although her face is taut from exhaustion, her eyes are clear and burning with something that only those of us brave enough to display can know. Suddenly, I hear her distinct footfalls stop and cannot help but come to a halt myself. I hardly notice the line of students that walks right into me.

She is a ray of sunlight, crashing through the fog.

Carrow, witness to it all, stomps over to McGonagall and demands to know why she's broken rank. There is no answer from her as she stares up at what appears to be nothing, but it is more than obvious to us that it's not a what, rather a who. I'm probably not alone in the estimation that it's Snape, hidden in the shadows of a tower to observe his prisoners on their way back to their cells. McGonagall's gaze is so intense I wonder if she's performing some wandless, wordless magic that very moment. Rivals — now enemies — until the very end.

Seeing that he cannot elicit an immediate response, Carrow resorts to what he knows best: using brute force. Although he is shorter than McGonagall, almost by miles, he grasps the robes at her shoulder and pushes, expecting her to lose her footing. McGonagall gives maybe a few inches but is hardly thrown off balance and continues to stare intently up at the tower. We stand back, taking in the scene.

He screams at her to get a move on or else, and when she is unresponsive once again, a stubby hand reaches into her hair, thrusting her forward with all its might. I let an outraged gasp escape, as do others, but before we can do anything, Carrow has his wand trained on us with the threat of incapacitation. His face is red and grudgingly we choose not to underestimate his anger.

Meanwhile, McGonagall has fallen to her knees and strands of hair have come undone from her customary bun, but she seems at ease. Now she cranes her neck back to continue her silent battle with Snape, and Carrow has become positively livid, boiling and beside himself. But before he can strike, she is on her feet, perhaps a little shakily for my liking, although her eyes have not left the tower containing her unseen target. Carrow cools then shoves her on, and she stumbles convincingly, but as she treks toward us I see that her eyes are blazing with satisfied defiance.

She knows that her actions could bring extreme consequences, namely in the form of punishment for us. Her pursed lips and tightened jaw speak to this as she nods us onward, though her eyes are still dancing through the fog. Reluctantly we realign and walk in unison into the castle. I'm cheered to hear her footsteps loud and lively among our own.

The story of that day spreads throughout the student body like wildfire. The DA is practically over the moon, especially the Gryffindors. We worry, of course, but allow ourselves a moment of triumph all the same. No punishment is seen by any of us, though we cannot say what may have happened to the Lioness. All we can do is wait.

During these next Transfiguration lessons, each of my classmates are more noticeably at attention when McGonagall speaks (and thankfully she appears unscathed). I, too, find myself sitting straighter, hanging on every word. We are monitored closely, and she hardly strays from the prescribed curriculum, but her voice is so determined. And her expression indicates that where hope was once questioned, it has been restored without a shadow of a doubt. She lends her strength, heaps it upon us behind the guise of an obedient servant. Thinking about it makes genuine laughter bubble up inside me. She plays the part so well.

McGonagall isn't the only teacher who has felt the itch of rebellion, though I know the others had it in them all along. Professor Sprout is almost back to her sprightly self, and little old Flitwick has more fervor in his pinkies than the Carrows could have possibly imagined. We eagerly await their classes. They're almost therapeutic in nature, making the days leading up to the end of the year entirely bearable.

These are the three Heads of House we can count on. When it comes down to it, three against one are extremely favorable odds.

This change in mood, although highly encouraging, begs the question of what they could know that we don't. McGonagall is a confirmed member of the Order, but how could she get any word out, let alone receive it? We figured she would have to go completely dark, being a teacher and all, though it is something of a miracle that we've managed to maintain our own form of contact with the outside for so long. By the end of spring we've got someone manning the wires almost all the way around the clock. If there were sort of news, it's likely we would have heard it first.

Perhaps their renewed morale is a most honest show of good faith, no special intelligence required. Maybe even we, the students, have been a source of inspiration. Our rumor mills, our blatant disregard for our new overlords. I can also see that they were probably heartsick to watch us show up to class every day, abused for standing up for ourselves. I know I'm glad that they, too, have joined the fight.

I have to believe all of this is true because it's the DA who is calling upon the Order when Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasely follow Neville through the portrait from the Hog's Head on the night of May the second.

"Lightning has struck!" cries Nigel through our radio set-up. His announcement is almost swallowed by an eruption of cheers and clapping from the rest of us.

We flock to the trio, issuing congratulations, pats on the back, hugs. Any form of friendly affection that can be given, and they seem almost desperate for it just as we were so desperate for their return. Soon enough, after we've all sobered and quieted down, Harry is asking for our help. He needs to find something, an artifact that has been lost for an age. Some offer up the best leads they can. I am hopeful that it's enough.

Suddenly I find myself in the Great Hall among my peers, and I can't quite remember how I've gotten here, as I'm still pleasantly stunned by the night's turn of events. Then I'm finally hearing why we've been gathered at such short notice. An alarm in Hogsmeade village. Harry Potter. Snape is looking for anyone who knows of his whereabouts. Punishment for withholding information. Like that scares us at all anymore. A smile tugs at my lips.

I let it loose when The Boy Who Lives steps out from the crowd. Night has fallen but I can feel the sun shining.

Harry immediately tears into Snape, damning him for his crimes against the Wizarding world and against us, the future. My chest swells. We stand proudly behind our hero.

Then McGonagall is there and warding off Snape with fire. She is fierce, like that day in January when she stared him down from the courtyard. Finally he has chosen to stand his ground instead of cloaking himself in darkness. A dangerous magical energy fills the air. I clutch my wand, gritting my teeth at every strike. Snape's own wand is raised but he doesn't retaliate, just defends. Strangely enough, his face seems to hold sympathy. And pain. But I forget any notion of this when he is repelled from the hall with a flourish of his robes and broken glass. He is a coward and now we are free to take back what is ours.

Several hours later, long after our shouts of victory have gone silent, all is beginning to seem lost. The walls are coming down around us, our friends are in pain, and the night is torturously endless. There are small wins here and there, but the overall battle is thinning our numbers and leaving us increasingly distraught. I can't draw enough breath to fill my lungs. I'm woozy, bloodied and dirty, trying to address anyone but failing to find a voice among the crying and the dead.

I think of my family. I wish I could see my mum and dad one last time. I take another look around at those who may never rise to see theirs again. The tears come. I vow to fight on, to give my life for the fallen.

The minutes slip by with more dueling and then a sacrifice we never thought would have to made. When Hagrid steps out from the Forbidden Forest carrying a lifeless Harry, our hope is reduced to less than the rubble beneath our feet. McGonagall screams. Ginny Weasley must be physically restrained. I slump against a skeletal pillar. We are all thinking the same thing: _It can't be_.

He proves us wrong when those green eyes open and he stands straight as an arrow. He seems oddly refreshed after having been deceased, and before we can gather ourselves he is leading Voldemort away. Yes, we can say the name now. And with Harry back (did he truly ever leave us?), we know its utterance will never be feared again.

We take the opportunity to clash with what remains of the Death Eaters and their forces. I see the Weasleys' mother engage Bellatrix Lestrange and dispose of her. Neville is sprinting, even with a limp, toward Luna. I am blasted off my feet by a blue hex but roll out of the way before another can hit me and send a spell back at my attacker. They are effectively downed. I continue in such a fashion, disarming one criminal and moving onto the next, helping my friends along the way. Slowly but surely we disable, destroy, and drive them out. Eradicating the evil that has dared to enter here.

Once Harry steps through what is left of the castle, it's over. We won. The war is done.

He is unable to take all the credit. Snape is a hero, he claims. It must be the truth because the look in his eyes in irrefutable. We're so ashamed, regretting what we couldn't help not knowing, but we are set on honoring the memory of the late Potions Master in true Hogwarts spirit.

The day dawned hours ago, but not until Voldemort finally perished did the sun come out. It bathes the foundations of our school in its pale yellow light, washing over those of us who have survived a night we will not soon forget. To rebuild the castle will be the easiest task while the entirety of Wizarding society must be completely reformulated from the ashes. Only the time it will take to heal our wounded bodies and hearts is immeasurable.

I lay out on a patch of lawn that somehow escaped being singed. Through the layers of blood and grime and ache, I can feel the sun grinning down at me. No more grey skies. The fog has lifted. I feel a body sidle up next to me on my left, and then one on my right. And then the presence of others, though I cannot say who or how many because my eyes just won't open.

We stay that way for some while, warming one another being warmed by the morning sun. I'm smiling and then sleeping, and I don't care if I never wake up.

"Thank you," I somehow manage. To those who lie beside me in life and in death.

We are free. We can live again.


End file.
